


Two Ways of Doing It

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sex, Fingering, M/M, Other, Post-Armageddon, Properly Terrifying Angelic Forms, Sexual Chasing-- sort of, Teasing, Top v Bottom debate, can I get a wahoo?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 23:49:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20162161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “How would you like to do it, then?”Crowley’s whole face turns the same lovely color as theHippeastrum miniatumhe keeps in a crowded corner among his terrified plant family; red as the blood of Amaryllis herself, piercing her heart daily on the scornful Alteo’s doorstep. “Wh-- what! What onEarthare you asking me? In the middle of all these people?”





	Two Ways of Doing It

In the wake of the apocalypse that has no longer happened, Crowley and Aziraphale sit close to each other in the restaurant. Aziraphale has eaten a great deal, and Crowley has eaten as much as he feels like eating, not quite as terribly fond of the whole consumption ordeal as his celestial friend.

“You know,” the demon mumbles, apropos of nothing. He’s chosen a pair of sunglasses with a slightly lighter lens, and though Aziraphale has said nothing to in any way indicate how dearly he misses Crowley’s gaze every day that it’s hidden, it feels like a deliberate concession to him. “There’s no one keeping track of us, now. Not that they were doing a very good job of it before this whole mess, but the point stands.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale easily agrees, curious as to the purpose of this statement. “Have you something in mind, my dear?”

“Well--” Crowley hesitates, and _flushes_, intriguingly enough. “Uh-- we might not be on the same page about this, but I thought-- well-- you know.”

This last bit is said sincerely enough that Aziraphale feels quite put out that he does not, in fact, know. “Could you clarify?”

A strange look comes over Crowley’s face, like some unpleasing combination of robust determination and abject embarrassment are battling it out on the back of his tongue. His voice, when he speaks, reflects that. “You--” he squeaks. Aziraphale pale eyebrows jump to his hairline. “You said I go too fast for you, so I’ll understand if-- if--”

Some of the humans at the tables nearby are staring not-so-subtly over their lifted drinks. Aziraphale places his hand over Crowley’s, and he shuts up immediately, a starstruck look seeping over his features.

“I do believe I know what you’re suggesting,” he reassures softly, and the finally _knowing_ rushes through him in a wave of relief; it’s not common that he and Crowley are on a different wavelength. “And, well-- it _has_ been six thousand years, hasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Crowley’s whole body sags with that same relief, sunglasses sliding down his nose a little with the sudden bow of his head. “Yes.”

“How would you like to do it, then?”

Crowley’s whole face turns the same lovely color as the _Hippeastrum miniatum_ he keeps in a crowded corner among his terrified plant family; red as the blood of Amaryllis herself, piercing her heart daily on the scornful Alteo’s doorstep. “Wh-- what! What on _Earth_ are you asking me? In the middle of all these people?”

To Aziraphale, this seems to be a rather unfairly prudish reaction, given that he is the angel and Crowley is the demon. “Well, the way I see it, there’s two ways of doing it, my dear boy. There’s the extra-celestial way, and there’s the--”

“You want to do it the human way?” Crowley is squeaking again, fidgeting nervously in his chair. “I hadn’t thought you’d go for s-- ssssomething like that.”

“We could try it once each and see what we like best,” Aziraphale suggests helpfully. Crowley buries his face in his hands. “I just--”

He falters, then continues, painfully honest.

“To say that I am without shame would be a lie. There are chastising voices in my head that sound a great deal like Gabriel and his lot.” Crowley winces sympathetically, lifting his head again to peer at Aziraphale with something like understanding. “I just can’t understand what we were fighting for if it’s not to do whatever we want, regardless.”

“Yeah.” Crowley sighs. “I-- I think we should do it our way first, for proper progression, or some other shit. I don’t know.”

“Yes?” Aziraphale smiles. “Any demon traditions to it that I should know about?”

Crowley looks mildly uncomfortable-- which is admittedly much better than the extremely uncomfortable he was just a minute ago. “Just one thing, really. Not sure you’ll like it.”

“Try me, dear.”

Crowley mutters something into his wine glass.

“What was that?”

“‘S usually a chase,” he says quietly.

“Oh!” Aziraphale blinks and folds his hands primly on the table. “That sounds quite fun, actually. Where shall it end?”

“Not everything’s gotta be planned, angel,” Crowley snarks. “It ends where it ends.”

“Where shall it start, then?”

“Not here,” the demon hisses, standing abruptly. “Let’s go home and drink, first.”

“I don’t want us to be drunk when we do it,” Aziraphale chides reproachfully. Crowley rolls his eyes.

“Then we’ll magic it away, beforehand. Come on, get up.”

A bottle and a half of vintage whiskey later, Aziraphale slaps a hand to his forehead and comes back to his senses amidst a cascade of books in his unlit shop. Neither of them need light to see, but it seems off-putting in some manner, so he waves a lazy hand and-- let there be light.

He hauls himself to his feet with a hand on the now-empty bookshelf and glances down distastefully at the mess he’s made. Usually it’s Crowley knocking over the books, rather on purpose.

For a moment, there’s silence… or-- as silent as the world _can_ be, and Aziraphale loves it so much for just this; the distant sounds of cars on asphalt, the faint footsteps as the wistful night-walking humans amble down the sidewalk, the whispers of passion, compassion, _adoration_ between closely pressed lovers, and nearby--

Nearby, a demon lies in wait. The smell of cigarette smoke and sulfur curls under the shop’s door, and if Aziraphale turns just slightly, he can hear the beating of Crowley’s human heart, and the shift of his blood-red hair against the outer wall as he leans the upper half of his body against it.

Aziraphale creeps closer, almost subconsciously choosing to step silently, and then with more deliberation as he remembers what the boy mentioned earlier, about a _chase_. There’s a barely-there creak of leather as Crowley moves his arm, presumably to bring the cigarette to his mouth, and Aziraphale smiles.

The bell above the door doesn’t dare to ring as the angel drifts out of the bookshop, wings shifting closer and closer to the corporeal dimension each second, as well as seconds can be acknowledged on the plane that they’re usually stored in.

His multiocular vision zeroes in on Crowley, and _there_ he is--

Each piercing eye lodges on a different feature; the brush of crimson eyelashes against cheeks as the demon slowly inhales the carcinogenic smoke, the expansion of his chest as his so-human lungs fill with oxygen, slender ribcage like the carriage of a delicate bird, the gentle curve of a hand with chipping black nails, the way his legs press close together to keep his body warm…

All of this in an instant, before the main attraction, those glorious yellow eyes, flicker over to him and spark with recognition, and the whole body’s system freezes. The heart stops pumping, lungs cease inhaling, saliva halts production. The only thing that remains moving is the thin pupils dilating slowly, slowly…

Aziraphale waits until his one true love has what looks like big dumb cat eyes before making his move. He _leaps_ forward, shrieking, and the demon twists away from his many grasping hands, twists out of his human form entirely, and takes to the night sky with wings black like an oil slick, reflecting the stars with such perfect clarity that it’s almost like they have their own light.

Aziraphale is hardly far behind, and soon they’re both above the clouds. Beneath the dramatic cast of the moon, Crowley’s opalescent wings seem almost restored to angelic glory. The broken circle of horn above his head captures Aziraphale’s sight of the moon for just a second as they arc through the freezing air, and the three holy leonine heads sigh with amusement at his boy’s antics.

“Where’ssss the wheelsss??” hisses the serpent, voice reverberating through the thin atmosphere. The multitude of scars across his scaled black body twitch for a second, as being in the presence of a multiocular angel reminds them that they were all once eyes themselves. “I want the whole sssysstem!”

“My goodness,” booms the triple chorus. “Feeling entitled, dear boy?”

Out come the wheels, bathed in holy fire and infinite, spinning at speeds irreconcilable with the physics of the material plane, the catastrophic effects of such a thing on the world around them held in check by sheer angelic will.

Crowley’s many, _many_ rows of demonic teeth are suddenly bared in what can only be read as a twisted mix of fear and arousal, and he’s off again like a chorded whip, zipping forward through leagues of distance in the span of each earthly second.

Aziraphale blinks himself forward into the space behind Crowley, gently folding the material plane together and stepping across before letting it unfurl behind him to its proper form, but each time he does so, the demon darts away from the lunge of the six massive grasping paws with remarkable agility.

Angelic patience begins to wear thin-- most likely much faster than a proper angel’s should, all things considered-- and quite suddenly, the whirling, flaming wheel of justice is encircled around them both, cleverly preventing a horizontal escape.

Crowley visibly cringes and curls onto himself as his world narrows to two options: up, or down?

When he goes to dive, Aziraphale goes with him, having known from the beginning what choice the serpent would make. Six arms, rippling with muscles and white fur, fasten tightly around the squirming demonic form, and their wings lock together as they plummet down through the clouds and into the ocean.

The momentum of their fall takes them deep into aquatic depths, and for the first time in the history of existence, an angel and a demon begin to meld their true forms in an act of unparalleled intimacy and love.

Humans on the decks of their ships drop everything they’re doing and stare in shock as every fish, dolphin, whale, shark, and suitably acrobatic crustacean leaps from the water’s surface in a beautiful arc-- beautiful, that is, until they all collide with each other in their multitudes, having all had the exact same idea for celebrating the mind-bending union happening beneath them.

Those creatures too far below the surface to have made the leap in time sulk and swim in half-hearted lemniscates, knowing that such an act is nowhere near as awe-inspiring as what those damned surface-dwellers were able to manage.

Not particularly paying attention to the sea-life around them, Aziraphale and Crowley find themselves knowing the shape of the other’s soul, the jagged edges and smooth curves-- that which is gilded and that which is scorched or scarred; and when the exploration is done, there is a deep satisfaction, like one relieved exhale after six thousand years of holding your breath.

===

“Think of it this way, angel,” Crowley drawls, looming over Aziraphale on the bed in the newly-made bookshop bedroom, where they both lie in only their underwear. His long, thin fingers sink into the lusciously soft mattress pad on either side of Aziraphale’s head as the angel stares up at him doubtfully, teeth sinking into his plump bottom lip.

He’s so overwhelmingly cute that Crowley has to look away for a moment, desperately eyeing the squat lamp on the side table with pretend interest.

“...Yes? You were saying something, dear.”

Crowley inhales slowly, then looks back, putting on his most seductive smirk. “A demon ravishing an angel. You, Aziraphale, finally succumbing to temptation; me, the serpent, partaking in the forbidden fruit. You wanna put up a fight? That could be fun.”

Aziraphale snorts unattractively. “A solid argument, certainly, but I think the better dynamic might be--”

He flips them with a burst of holy energy and pins Crowley down with one hand on his chest and one on his taut stomach-- Crowley feels his abdominal muscles twitch reflexively beneath that palm.

“An angelic soldier captures his demonic foe, _forces_ him to sustain the holy caresses of his heavenly love.” He grabs Crowley’s knees and shoves his long legs apart, puts himself between them before they can defensively close and smiles beatifically as Crowley stares at him, jaw dropped. “Perhaps making love can bring out the goodness in his heart.”

“That’s-- you’re--”

“Don’t you recall who was the chas_er_ and who was the chas_ee_, in our little adventure?”

“That’sss not a word, motherfucker,” Crowley hisses, and flips them again, jabbing his sharp elbows into Aziraphale’s shoulders to keep him in place. “Humanss put a lot of Pride in who’sss on top. Ssshould be me.”

Flip.

“Good triumphs over evil!”

Flip!

“Innocence dessstroyed…”

Flip!!

“I want to make you feel _good_, Crowley,” Aziraphale purrs, and since when has this angel got _game_?? Crowley lets out an involuntary whimper that immediately loses him the battle. “Don’t worry, dear, we can do it your way next time.”

The angel noses at his heated chest, and Crowley tries to stop his rapid breathing, tries to remind himself that oxygen is unnecessary to the likes of him.

Teeth press gently into his neck, and his whole body convulses.

“Oh! Uhhh…”

“That’s it, dear,” Aziraphale whispers against his skin. “You’re safe with me, don’t mind your voice.”

Soft hands feel at his chest before dragging down and stopping at his stomach, pressing thumbs down onto the places where vulnerable organs lie beneath, just enough pressure to make Crowley instinctively bare his teeth, even as his eyes almost roll back in his head. Aziraphale giggles.

“My sweet boy, my darling…” The hands drift to his hips, and Crowley keens at how good they feel there, warm and protecting. “You’re so good, just for me--”

Crowley inhales quickly and shuts his eyes, laying a triple-curse on his own tear ducts.

“Oh, my! I’m sorry, dear, please forgive me.”

Little kisses all over his face, leaving a faint tingling in their wake. Two on his eyelids, and Crowley opens them, embarrassed. Aziraphale smiles down at him kindly.

“There you are, darling.”

“‘M sssorry,” he croaks, and the angel hugs him, a comforting and heavy weight pushing him down into the soft bed.

“Do you still want to continue?”

“Yes, yesss…”

Aziraphale draws back and hooks his fingers under the waistband of Crowley’s underwear. “You want me?”

“Yess, pleassse…”

The cloth is slowly pulled down, centimeter by centimeter, and the way Aziraphale stares like it’s the grand reveal of some holy gift makes Crowley want to snarl and writhe.

Finally, the underwear is gone and Crowley is bare beneath his angelic lover, his Aziraphale, and this is the true culmination of six thousand years worth of tension and longing.

Celestial soul-melding is one thing, a fantastic and mind-turning act to be sure, but there’s nothing _careful_ about it, no real foreplay in the act itself, which is the reason why demons took up the ritualistic chase (Well, one of the reasons. Nothing like a well-placed power struggle in Hell).

This, this human _thing_, of material limbs and nerve endings, of clothing and buildup and temptation, yearning and tantalizing glimpses of wrists and ankles, pointed eye contact, tongues that also can speak and curse him and _damn_ him--

“Ffffff--”

Aziraphale watches him with lust-dark eyes as his hand closes around Crowley’s cock, thumb brushing over the head slowly.

“Do you like this, Crowley?’

“Ah-- d-do I-- Yes! Oh--” Just a _little_ lubrication, there’s still a drag-- “Ah, ah!”

He pants into the open air. His own hand doesn’t even compare, doesn’t even come close. That he even thought it could be something similar is laughable, because this is _Aziraphale_, dragging waves of tingling pleasure from him with each pull, and he’s watched those hands for millennia and now they’re touching _him_.

“A-azsssiraph-- mm! Baby, pleasssse--”

Aziraphale moans at the pet name and slips his other hand lower to rub at him with one miraculously slick finger, and he himself is panting, the expression on his round face almost bewildered by the strength of his own reaction to Crowley’s pleasure.

Crowley falls markedly silent when the first finger breaches him, only because he knows he would have made an even more embarrassing sound if he hadn’t bitten his own tongue hard enough to draw blood; but he can’t stop the way his legs spasm with ecstasy and his claws tear lines through the bedsheets.

“Don’t, don’t stop your noises!” Aziraphale is almost snarling, pissed off just as much as he would be if Crowley snatched a piece of cake right out from under him. His hand ceases movement and Crowley whimpers.

“Okay, okay--!”

The hand returns with two fingers, and Crowley squeaks, screwing his eyes shut.

“That’s it, dear heart, my boy…”

Those thick fingers move in and out, excruciatingly slow, stroking inside of him, the movement close enough to pulsing that he can _almost_ pretend he’s already hit home run, rocking him back and forth, yes--

His eyes are wrenched open as Aziraphale finds the spot he’s looking for, and suddenly two fingers isn’t enough and he _needs_ more.

“C-can you-- fffuck! Can-- shit! C-- Az-- mm, mhm, mm…!”

Now that the angel’s found the spot he’s pressing against it over and over again like the bloody hedonist he is, watching with wide eyes and a bitten lip as the slightest twitch of his fingers arches Crowley’s spine with electricity, whites out his vision for split seconds at a time as the pleasure center of his brain takes over.

“Pleassse,” slurs Crowley, desperately reaching for any motor functions he’s able to retain through the onslaught. “Put-- ffuck, me, p-please--”

“Oh, well.” Aziraphale pouts a bit, withdrawing his fingers ever so slowly and then getting caught up in the way Crowley twitches when he’s empty, so achingly empty.

“Angel!”

“Alright!” Aziraphale laughs sweetly and pushes his own underwear down, and Crowley feels saliva pooling in his mouth at the sight of what’s going to be in him, has to clamp his mouth shut to keep from drooling all over himself like some adolescent succubus.

A bit shorter than average, but _thick_, and Crowley’s lusting emptiness becomes too much. He throws his head back and gets his hands under his knees, drawing his legs apart and opening himself wide-- panting, waiting, wanting.

“Darling,” Aziraphale whispers, and then he’s pressing in, and it’s so much _better_ than fingers, Crowley’s own or even Aziraphale’s, and he’s stretched so impossibly wide as the angel pushes in, throbbing heat into Crowley’s cold bones, pleasing the serpent brain among other things.

Aziraphale whines and thrusts deeply, punching a stuttering gasp out of Crowley, and then it’s the angel’s hands on his knees to hold him open. Thank Someone his own hands are freed, because he has to quickly reach up and grab the headboard to keep his skull from cracking into it as Aziraphale apparently goes _fucking feral_, thrusting hard and fast against that one spot inside Crowley that forces small sounds out of his mouth, like--

“Oh, mm, ah, ah! Ah, ff, uhh, hah!” And not to mention the noise he makes when Aziraphale shoves his tongue in his mouth and _twists_ his nipple, all-- “MMfh! Mm! Mm, mm--”

Every muscle in his body clenches as he comes all over himself, pulsing around Aziraphale’s cock and causing the angel to gasp and spill into him, hot and wet and so, so good.

The aftershocks take him one by one until finally he falls limp, wheezing and shuddering. Aziraphale pulls out slowly, reluctantly, and watches Crowley leak. His face flushes hot red and he tries to bare his teeth, really does, but even his facial muscles are twitching, and it’s far too much effort.

Finally, the angel collapses next to him and immediately draws him close, cuddling to his heart’s content. A little while passes, and eventually Crowley feels put together enough to say--

“You’ve done that before, haven’t you?”

“Mm.” A hum of agreement.

“That was-- w- wow. Like, I don’t think, when it’s my turn, I’m going to be nearly that good, because I’ve never--”

“That’s alright, dear,” Aziraphale reassures him softly, nuzzling into his red hair with a rapturous expression, eyes closed. He looks younger, like this, so well pleased. “I’ll love it because it’s you, that’s all.”

Crowley thanks whoever’s listening that he had the foresight to curse his tear ducts earlier. As it is, he still sniffles embarrassingly, dry-eyed, and buries his face in Aziraphale’s chest.

“Okay,” he mumbles. “Guess I’ve got time to perfect it.”

Aziraphale sighs happily. “A proper eternity, dear.”


End file.
